The Camry Camper
A collection of journal entries reflecting on the week I lived out of my 1994 Toyota Camry
Story by TYLER MORRIS
The First Night
Day was giving way to a cold October night. Scouring through REI, I tried to make a mental note of what I still might need for my time in the car. As the stars came out and the store began to close, I knew I had to get started. If I wasn’t going to do it that night, I wasn’t going to do it at all.
I left town at around 8 p.m. Saturday night. My destination was Excelsior Pass just off the side of the Mount Baker Highway — a long, nerve-wracking drive. Eddie, my light blue 1994 Toyota Camry has nearly 200,000 miles on it, a slight transmission issue, and is the fifth most stolen car in the U.S., according to Forbes. What could possibly go wrong?
When I reached Excelsior Pass, it was around 10 p.m. and I hadn’t seen anyone on the road since I’d passed through the town of Glacier 20 minutes earlier. Call it paranoia, but the trailhead gave me a creepy feeling and all I wanted to do was drive home and jump into bed. There was this weird vision I kept seeing in my head: A flash of light would envelope my car, pull it into the sky and I’d never be heard from again. Instead, I decided to drive to the end of the highway up to Artist Point.
At around 5,000 feet above sea level, Artist Point provides some of the most spectacular views of mountain vistas that Whatcom County has to offer. The temperature dropped to 36 degrees as Eddie and I reached the top. I parked at the far end of the lot facing Mount Baker. The giant sat shrouded in darkness, watching me as I blacked my windows with some poorly made cutouts. The temperature was unbearable outside but being that high up, that late at night, I would have froze to death happy knowing I got to see those stars. This was the first time I had been up to Artist Point on such a clear night.
Defining “homeless” is hard, especially in this context. When you have everything you need and a roof over your head, are you really homeless? This was the question I set out to answer by attempting to living in my car for a week. I made it six days.
You see it on Instagram, the photos of Volkswagens and Sprinter vans turned into tiny mobile homes, parked in some of the most beautiful places on the planet. Or lifted trucks conquering backcountry, reminiscent of the old West; a cowboy and his horse. It’s a popular lifestyle that’s been picked up on social media. I caught wind of it after seeing a photo of a late ’60s Ford Bronco turned into a backcountry survivalist vehicle with the old truck charm, complete with everything a person needs to live. Immediately, I was curious. Classic trucks like that command quite a high premium today, the best ones selling for well over $100,000. I figured anyone who owned such a desirable classic would never use it like that Nobody wants to dent 50-year-old metal. While most vehicle dwellers don’t have old Ford Broncos, I found that the more I learned about vehicle dwelling, the more I started to see it in my own town.
Whatcom County is a prime location for folks to make a go at living their everyday life out of a vehicle. It’s mostly vans and trucks with campers — neither of which I own. Still, my first night up Artist Point was one of the best experiences I had. The next night wasn’t so kind.
Second Morning
My eyelids opened. My head was full, I could hardly breathe — my body hadn’t been properly elevated. I reached for my glasses, the bridge seated perfectly against the shifter, the ideal spot for a fragile object in such a tight space. It was 5:45 a.m. and I was parked in an empty lot outside of Arroyo Park. I slid my key into the ignition, turned it and the Toyota fired to life.
The night dragged on. I’d wake up after each set of headlights darted across the back windshield. Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers was the only company I had, but my phone’s battery had to be parceled out for a morning alarm. Even at the crack of dawn, long before I needed to get up, I was glad to move, to do something other than just lay there. Sleep was the single greatest challenge most nights.
I tore down my car home, rolled up my mattress pad, pried the window inserts from the windows and loaded it all into the trunk. A Ford Explorer darted up Old Samish Road, speeding toward the lot. I hopped into the driver seat as the SUV came to a roll behind me. A spotlight pierced through the rear window.
I couldn’t figure out why Bellingham Police were shining lights into our cars, as it’s legal to live in car in Whatcom County, as long as you follow the proper parking ordinances. This lot is frequented by car campers and “vanlifers.” I’d pulled up the night before to find a Toyota Tacoma doing the same thing, and sometime in the middle of the night a mid-’80s GMC van had also joined our small neighborhood.
The officer panned the light across our cars before moving on. I’d finished packing up and started for the Wade King Student Recreation Center. The hot shower did wonders for the head congestion that had seemed to worsen overnight. With thoughts drifting back to the police car, I readied myself for work.
Spending the night in a car requires problem solving that one would not face living with four walls and a roof. That cold night on Baker, I tried to avoid moisture on the windows by cracking the sunroof open, a smidge, but the heat quickly escaped, turning the car into an icebox. Luckily, I slept fully clothed in a sleeping bag, which did keep me warm, but was extremely uncomfortable.
The sleeping arrangement was one aspect of the whole experience that was less than ideal. It was far from it, in fact. The next morning I felt congested, my back and shoulders ached, and I asked myself if it was worth it. I had taken part of the rear seat out and laid the sleeping pad from the base of the rear passenger seat to the end of truck, a space of about five and a half feet. My head hung slightly off the edge, even with my knees bent. There wasn’t enough room to roll over as my hips got caught on the top of the trunk. If a comfortable sleeping position existed, I failed to find it.
Night Three
By the third night, I was miserable. The car was a mess, there was no order to anything, and I started to feel sick. After pulling over to make dinner at a local park that Tuesday, I decided to try the Walmart parking lot. It was by no means glamorous, but after scouring car camping forums and Reddit, it was a spot that popped up often. While I have issues with their business practices, the parking lot was home for the night. Most Walmarts are open 24 hours, but Bellingham’s closes at midnight. The noise level was reduced with less traffic coming in and out. I parked toward the back, blacked out my windows and tried to fall asleep. The fluorescent light nearby began to hum sometime in the middle of the night. I pinched my eyes shut, eagerly awaiting 5:45 a.m.
The “Cheat” Day
The next morning at work, I sat at my desk with heavy eyes; I couldn’t write one coherent sentence. Aching and sleep deprived, I knew something had to change if I was going to make it any longer. When I got home, my roommate was frying up a piece of chicken, and the smell was the most magnificent thing I’d smelled in days. My diet had consisted of canned goods heated over a little propane stove. It was time to reevaluate. I had initially boiled it down to a tool box, a box of kitchen supplies, a duffle bag of clothes and my sleeping arrangement. It doesn’t seem like much, but the car was a nightmare. The one rule I learned very quickly is everything needs to have a purpose.
I cut my kitchen supplies in half and downsized my clothes. If I was going to continue, it was only for a few more nights. How much stuff was I really going to need? The biggest change, however, was the sleeping setup. I ripped out both back seats so I was able to access the entire trunk from the cabin. This allowed for a much larger (and more comfortable) sleeping pad. I was able to condense everything into the trunk and easily fold the sleeping pad out. I still couldn’t roll over, but I was much more comfortable. There was only one problem. My head still hung off the back of the seat. I shoved my clothes bag underneath the pad which propped it up enough to rest my head on it. After the car was redone, it was late and already dark, but it would be worth it if I could make up for three nights of lost sleep.
The first few days had their ups and downs. I wanted to make sure that this was something I could do for another three days on top of work and school. The house I live in has a small amount of land surrounding it, and I decided if the new setup wasn’t going to work then at the very least I would be close to home. I ended up with a full eight hours of sleep and felt great the next day. There were some caveats. I slept fully clothed and changed in the rec center as getting dressed in the car required a series of convulsions just to slip on a pair of jeans. Making food was still time consuming and produced tasteless results, but for the first time in this experiment I felt content in my temporary home.
Day Five
I met up with a full-time vehicle dweller who lives out of his Toyota Tundra and we drove out to Lummi Dike. It was clear evening and Mount Baker was visible across the golden fields. We went toward the end of the dike, where the Cascades reached prominently into the sky on one side and the Olympics poked up on the other, just above Orcas Island. I’d spent the night picking his brain about his truck and what led him to choose the vehicle dwelling life. It’s truly amazing what a person can create with so little. Here was a person who had been doing this for the better part of five years; I was on my fifth day and I was already exhausted. For him, it was home.
The Final Night
For the last night, I decided to take it easy. I swiped a beer from the house, parked at a small turn-off along Chuckanut Drive, grabbed my laptop and sat on top of the Camry typing the first of many drafts of this article. I struggled to write, as I wasn’t really sure how to word it or what to say. The sun set over the bay, the beer can emptied and the pages mostly empty. “Why did I do this?” I kept asking myself. It stuck with me well after I went to sleep and continued on with my life. Vehicle dwelling for some is about saving money, and for others it allows them to do the things they love. Ultimately, it allows people to connect with things they love. For me, it allowed me to be around cars.
Passion is a funny thing — you follow it wholeheartedly. Vanlife, car camping, overlanding, all of it is a piece of car culture. Cars have stories and I want to tell those stories, and perhaps create some of my own in the process.
